


Gardening in the Desert, The Art of Tiny Moments

by TricksterShi



Series: The Pie Bitch 'Verse [5]
Category: Original Work, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Ancient Gods are Douchebags, Angst, Blindness, Character Death, Deals, Gen, Major Character Injury, Sentient Plants, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-13
Updated: 2012-12-12
Packaged: 2017-11-21 00:24:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/591360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TricksterShi/pseuds/TricksterShi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes it doesn’t matter how you change events, sometimes things were meant to play out a certain way. Dean made a deal for Sam, Sam came back, and Dean has to pay his dues. But instead of hell, Dean wakes up in 1860 where the West is wilder than Hollywood could have prepared him for. To get back to Sam, Dean has to finish a gauntlet that may rob him of everything- including his memory of Sam- before he reaches the end.</p><p>In short, ancient gods are douchebags and being separated from pie (Sam) sucks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

      _“Brother Elder and Brother Younger were born from the union between Father Sun and Changing Woman. When they were young, Changing Woman told Father Sun that the boys would grow to be great warriors, but they had a long road to travel. Father Sun told her not to worry, he would teach them the ways of the warrior and of the world and those that lived in it. Changing Woman was happy with this._

_“Soon, the Creator called Changing Woman back to the spirit world. She cried to leave her young ones, but remembered Father Sun’s promise and knew they would be cared for. Father Sun taught the brothers how to use the spear and bow. He taught them about the spirits and the monsters that preyed on The People. He taught them how to walk in the dark and the light._

_“One day, Brother Younger came to Father Sun and told him he wished to prove himself and become a man. Father Sun did not believe Brother Younger was ready yet and told him to go back to camp and tend the fires. Angered, Brother Younger took his spear, his bow and his pack and left the camp. Afraid for his safety, Father Sun and Brother Elder followed. When they could not find him, Father Sun and Brother Elder fought and went on separate trails._

_“Brother Elder searched the mountains and the plains for Brother Younger. He asked the four winds to watch for him. He asked the rivers, the buffalo, the deer, and the rabbits if Brother Younger had passed them by. He went as far as the great waters and sang his prayers to the Creator for his brother._

_“One day he woke to find Coyote by his fire. Coyote told Brother Elder he knew where Brother Younger was camped and would take Brother Elder there on a condition: that Brother Elder leave his weapons._

_“I know you are a great hunter, Coyote said. You have collected many pelts, and you count me among your adversaries. So leave your spear and bow and I will take you to Brother Younger._

_“Brother Elder hesitated. He knew Coyote was a trickster and caused much mischief wherever he went. How do I know you are telling the truth?, Brother Elder asked Coyote._

_“Coyote smiled. You must choose to stay or follow, he said and walked away. He could not stay behind, so Brother Elder left his camp with nothing and followed the trickster into the wilderness. They walked together for many days, crossing rivers and mountains so high they touched the stars. Then they came to a large cave._

_“Brother Younger is inside, but you must defeat the monster that dwells there, Coyote said. It will devour Brother Younger unless you find him first._

_“Brother Elder knew of the cave. Many told stories of the creature living inside, how it lured people away from camp and killed them so it could wear their skins and use their teeth for its rattle sticks. Why did you tell me to leave my spear and bow, Brother Elder asked._

_“Coyote just laughed. You will not defeat this creature with those weapons, he said. Coyote went back down the mountain and Brother Elder walked into the dark cave after Brother Younger.”_

 

 

#

 

 

 

 

Somewhere in Texas, 1860

 

Dean thinks of Clint Eastwood and John Wayne as he crouches behind the boulder. There have been worse odds in the history of gunfights, much worse. He ignores the fact that they were Hollywood standards; some were based in fact and right now that’s good enough for Dean.

He counts out his bullets- seven left- and it’s only one man he’s up against, but the guy’s a piece of work and he probably entered this world with a six shooter in one hand, and possibly a Bowie knife in the other.

What Dean wouldn’t give for the Duke to come striding in about now.

The sun burns the back of his neck and the air tastes of acrid gunpowder. It sticks in his throat and gets in his eyes. He hasn’t slept in three days; he may not live long enough to get any tonight, not if his luck doesn’t change soon.

A chunk of rock explodes next to his head, slivered shards pepper his skin. Dean curses and ducks low. He crab-walks back and tries to get a line of sight on the guy. Everything is rock and sand and sage bleeding into the canyon Dean was heading for. If he can get into it he’d have a better chance at disappearing, at least until the sharpshooter is gone.

Dean aims and lets off a shot at a flash of brown hat. It hits dirt and kicks up dust.

“I know you didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” comes the whiskey rough voice from across the way. “But you’re making it worse for yourself by resisting.”

“It wasn’t me, god damn it!” Dean says, and he’s desperate; for a miracle, for an extra bullet, for Sam to-

The warm press of metal at the back of his neck brings thought to a stop. There’s the drawback of a hammer, so loud and final.

“Drop iron.”

Dean drops the guns and holds up his hands. The man behind him is a portly guy with a handlebar mustache and a tin star pinned on his jacket. The other is younger with a patchy beard eating his face and the semi gaunt look of someone who’s never known anything but a hard life.

“Funny lookin’ gun,” Patchy stoops to pick it up.

They tie Dean’s hands until the rope bites into his wrists with sandpaper teeth and lead him to the horses they have waiting. There are only two, so the rope is lengthened and tied to Handlebar’s saddle horn. Patchy empties Dean’s pockets taking his wallet, his change, his useless cell phone, and the keys to the Impala. Patchy puts it all in his saddlebags and Handlebar tugs on the rope. Dean walks.

The sun is setting when they finally see town again, the light casting shadows that swallow chunks of desert. Ash like demon smoke floats on the air. Three houses are charred to nothing. Soot streaked faces watch them pass by. Fingers point and down-turned mouths whisper.

Three white sheets are wrapped around still human shapes and laid out in the bed of a wagon.

One is less than three feet tall.

Dean’s legs are jelly when Handlebar dismounts and leads him into the jail. Dean’s knees scream under the strain but he won’t show it. The air is cool inside the building, the jail bars even cooler. Handlebar takes him in, cuts the rope, and leaves. The iron key grates against the lock, a harsh click as the gears slide into place.

“Get comfy, stranger. We got questions for you in the morning.”

There are people at the door asking questions. Angry voices rise like the buzz of so many wasps calling for answers, for a name, for blood. Handlebar goes out and shuts the door. The light goes dim.

Dean sits on the sparse bed, nothing more than a straw-filled sack that smells of mold, piss, and rotgut booze. There’s a bucket in the corner. A handful of flies circle and land on it lazily.

Dean rests his head against the cool wood and rubs his wrists. His eyes fall closed and he sighs. He sees the sheet wrapped bodies in the back of the wagon. He sees their faces twisted in agony with flames spreading like disease over their skin, turning them black and throwing the smell of roasting meat into the air.

Their screams are loud in his ears.

Their black eyes stare at him with unvoiced confusion.

Dean stretches out on the sack and breathes through his mouth. The murmur of voices fades away after a while. Crickets and wind rattling the roof replace them. Handlebar and Patchy come back sometime during the night. They light a kerosene lantern and move around the main office of the jail. Dean pretends to sleep as they pour his belongings onto the table and sift through them, their tone melting into curiosity. Dean digs his fingernails into his palms. He’s never had much, and now he has even less. Knowing that those men are pawing through all he’s got left is almost enough to throw himself at the bars until he’s broken them down or broken himself against them.

Almost.

The men shuffle off to their cots eventually. The crickets fade away. The wind twines through the cracks around the door and window outside his cell, a gentle caress of invisible fingers, a low whisper of endless miles of freedom beyond the wood and iron.

Dean thinks of Sam, thinks of the idiot dancing in the rain and the sweet and tangy cherry burst across his tongue; he thinks of the Impala and how she purred smoother with Sam back in the passenger seat, how she felt balanced again. He thinks of watching Sam sleep in that hospital bed; he thinks of the moment he burned the missing poster he made up in his head, the one he imagined up when hope ran dry and John got quiet. He’d held Sam’s hand while the heart monitor stayed steady; he’d closed his eyes, lit a match, and watched that poster curl in on itself until the black letters saying Sam was gone had been taken back.

It didn’t matter that Sam hadn’t come back all the way.

He came back.

The wind rattles the roof. The flies buzz in the corner. Dean ignores his aching, burning bones and tries to sleep.

 

#

 

_The tree was old and twisted, its branches like fleshless fingers reaching for the stars high above. Great swathes of sand surrounded it and disappeared into the dark of the desert. A few leaves, curling and dry, clung to a single branch still alive with sap flowing in its wooden veins._

_Dean stood at the base, his hands on the bark. He could feel the pulse of life, a low heartbeat thrumming. Dean ran his fingers down the scores in the bark as deep as claw marks._

_“Come home, Dean.”_

_The dark shape of a man leaned his back against the trunk of the tree. In the dim light Dean made out a hat pulled low over his face and long hair curling over his shoulders. He put a cigarette to his mouth and the end lit by itself. He took a drag, breathed it in, and let the smoke curl out of his nose._

_“This isn’t home,” Dean said._

_“Isn’t it?”_

_“I’ve never been here before.”_

_“Not in a while,” said the man. “Why do you think you were sent here?”_

_Dean sighed._

_“I know why I’m here.”_

_He chose his fate, he accepted the consequences. He would never regret it._

_“You are a drop in the ocean, kid. You know nothing.”_

_The cigarette lent a faint glow to the man’s face. His eyes were like knives in the dark. He regarded Dean for a time. Dean stared right back. What else did he have to lose?_

_The man finished the cigarette and flicked it away. It burned bright for a moment and disappeared._

_“Take care of the seeds, Dean. Give ‘em a chance, then come home.”_

_The wind rattled the dead branches. A lone coyote howled in the distance._

_The man turned toward Dean. For a moment there was a play of light and shadow over his face, and Dean felt like he was looking into water where the man’s features rippled and changed._

_Something was pressed into Dean’s hand, something leather and small. The man blew smoke in his face. Dean caught it mid-inhale._

_“Come home, Dean.”_

[ ](http://poetartist.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/448/43960)

 

#

 

Dean wakes with death in his mouth and grit ground so far into his skin that it’ll take ten showers to get it all out again. He still hears screaming and the sizzle-pop of burning flesh. History repeating itself backwards and forwards, he guesses. Ironic doesn’t begin to cover it.

The sheriff and his deputy are still asleep in their respective cots. Handlebar wheezes on every other inhale. Patchy is curled tight in on himself; if it weren’t for the slight rise and fall of his shoulders Dean would think he’d kicked off during the night.

Dean runs a hand over his face and by the lack of light he guesses dawn must still be a ways off. Great.

“You just gonna sit on your ass and wait for the noose?”

Dean jumps as a figure steps out of the shadows near the front door.

“Dude,” Dean heaves himself to his feet, biting back a groan. “Who the hell are you?”

“Friend of a friend, he asked me to get you out.”

It takes Dean a minute to comprehend that. He lets out a sigh.

“So Jimmy made it out okay?”

“Well enough.” The man tugs on his gloves and swipes the key from a peg on the wall. “First though, you and I need to come to an agreement before I let you out.”

Dean regards the man, uneasy.

“Agreement?”

“A deal.”

Dean’s lip curled up.

“Christo.”

His eyes stay the same.

The man snorts. “Ain’t a demon, boy.”

“Makin’ a deal is what got me sent here in the first place, had to check.”

“Another just might get you out.”

Dean considers it.

“What’s the deal?”

“I let you out and you stay out of my way. You don’t interfere with my business or try to shoot me. It don’t work.”

Dean looks him up and down, his mind running down a list of tests and creatures.

“What are you?”

“Somethin’ that’s saving your life.”

“And you want to help me?”

The man meets his eyes. “I’m a man of my word. Jimmy seems to think you are, too. So what’s it gonna be?”

Handlebar lets out a loud snort and Dean startles. A check of the window shows the shadows to be getting lighter.

Dammit, Jimmy, he thinks.

“Yeah, alright,” he says. “Deal.”

The man’s lips quirk up into what might have once been a grin but now only cut a grim line deeper into his sallow features.

“You got a name?” Dean asks as the man approaches.

“Elias Finch.”

Neither Handlebar or Patchy stir as Elias turns the key in the lock. It clicks back like a gunshot, or at least it does in Dean’s mind, and the door pushes open with a small squeak.

Dean goes to the table and pockets all of his stuff, kissing the Impala keys and checking through the wallet out of habit. The money won’t be good here, but the picture he keeps in the side flap is still there and that’s what matters.

Elias makes a move-your-ass noise and they sneak out of the jail. It’s all very nerve wracking and anti-climactic without background music and only one close call.

“Here,” says Elias when they clear the town and head into the open country.

Dean turns in time to catch a small leather pouch. A look inside shows him a handful of seeds.

“You dropped it in the jail.”

 

#

 

_Sam grinned at him when Dean started belting out CCR completely out of tune with the tape. After a minute he even joined in and they could have been fourteen and eighteen, seventeen and twenty-one, or nine and thirteen after school and soaking up the summer sun from the back seat of the Impala with the windows rolled down._

_Sam stumbled over some of the lyrics he used to know by heart, but he didn’t get self-conscious. He kept on with la-la-la in the places his brain skipped and he stayed._

_Sam stayed in the moment._

_“We need to go to South Texas sometime when it’s cooler,” Sam said when the song ended. He turned the volume down with the twitch of a finger. It was a little disconcerting at first, but that gave way to pretty freaking cool early on. There were just so many applications for that kind of talent, like sudden bursts of wind near women in skirts. Sammy vetoed that one, but Dean’d planted the seed. It would grow. “I was down there for a bit. They had this place, Mama Rita’s, it has the best chile rellanos I’ve ever eaten.”_

_“Oh yeah?” Dean shot him a grin._

_“Yeah. Two words: deep fried.”_

_Dean groaned in time with his stomach._

_“Dude, no fair. You can’t tell me about a place like that when we’re driving in the opposite direction.”_

_Sam got a weird look on his face, still smiling, and made some kind of twisty motion with his hand._

_Dean let out a string of curses as the road disappeared and the world shifted. They came out at a standstill in a parking lot that faced an unassuming white building. A neon pepper flashed in time the word ‘Open’ over a red door._

_Sam had an impish grin on his face as he beckoned Dean inside._

_Sam was right; the deep fried chile rellano was freaking epic._

_They ordered another one to-go and Sam dropped them outside the gates of Singer Salvage._

_Dean took a breath, flashed teeth at Sam, and walked by his side up to the house._

 

#

 

“What the hell dude,” Dean says when Elias is out of earshot checking the trail. Dean’s horse snorts and dances under him, keyed up from Dean’s energy. “He’s not even human.”

Jimmy shoots him a nervous glare. The guy is a couple years older than Sam, compact and solid, and he’s hiding more than Dean can get out of him. He has this twitchy demeanor and spends more time dodging questions than he does being helpful.

Dean should have left him in that goddamn field where they woke up.

“He found me on the edge of town. I was trying to find a way to get you out and he said he could help.”

“Lemme guess, he made you a deal.”

Jimmy looks away.

Dean nudges his horse forward.

“You are one stupid son of a bitch. You’re gonna lose your soul or something worse if you don’t start thinking.”

“I was thinking that you were gonna get strung up or something if I didn’t get you out of there, then you would have died and I’d be here trying to figure this shit out on my own,” Jimmy hissed back. “You were the one that wanted to go demon hunting anyway. If we’d just gone on-”

“That town would have suffered more,” Dean said. Those demons had just gotten started turning people against each other, killing off animals, poisoning water. Dean had tried to exorcise the parents, but he hadn’t counted on the three year old being possessed, or for Jimmy to knock over the lantern.

Dean and Jimmy could run, but they’d drawn Devil’s traps over the windows and doors.

Jimmy sighs. “It wasn’t our problem.”

It takes all of Dean’s strength not to hit Jimmy upside his head. Hard.

“You aren’t mine, either,” Dean says. “You wouldn’t even be here if you learned to think.”

“Pots and kettles, man.”

“Hey,” Dean pulls his horse to a stop. It snorts and stamps its feet. “I knew what I was getting into. If I wasn’t here you would be in worse shape, kid, just like that town.”

“Stop calling me kid.”

“That posse is gonna catch up if you two don’t quit actin’ like a bunch of schoolgirls,” Elias calls from ahead.

Dean grinds his teeth and shoots a look at Jimmy.

“Just keep your mouth shut,” Dean keeps his eyes on Jimmy until he finally backs down.

Dean clucks to the horse and catches up to Elias. Jimmy follows and ignores Dean until they stop to sleep under a cottonwood for the night.

It’s so much like Sam used to be when he got in one of his snit fits that Dean almost tells Jimmy to stop being a little bitch. He clamps his teeth down over the words and swallows them back. He turns his back to the small fire and takes first watch, listens as Elias and Jimmy put away the rest of the jerky and water to bed down in their rolls.

The ache in his chest feels like a heart attack and he stares up at the sky, not wishing or hoping and damn sure not praying. He tries not to think of anything at all.

 

#

 

_“Why am I here? What’s the purpose of all…this?”_

_The man is tuning a guitar, picking a string here and there to check his progress. He and Dean sat side by side on the sand. Above, the sky was turning like a lazy Susan spinning on its base, the stars leaving white streaks in the dark._

_Time was passing all around them, moments slipping into infinities and back again. All the while nothing changed around them._

_“Think about it.”_

_“It’s not what I expected.”_

_Guitar man smirked and tried another string._

_“What did you expect?”_

_Dean turned the pouch of seeds over in his hands. He could feel them rattling around inside, brushing against each other with a faint whisper._

_“Fire,” he answered. “Torture. Hell of a lot more demons.”_

_Guitar man shrugged. “Don’t need to go to hell to find all three.”_

_“But I should be there,” Dean insisted. Not here._

_“Is that where you want to go?”_

_Guitar man stopped messing with the instrument and turned to him._

_“No, of course not, but-”_

_“Then stop asking for it. Do something more worthwhile than lamenting that you did not end up burning for eternity. Most people would be jumping for joy at this turn of events.”_

_Dean snapped his jaw shut. Guitar man leaned back against the tree._

_Dean crossed his arms over his knees and stared up at the sky, feeling agonizingly small in the great expanse._

_“I want to go home. I wanna get back to Sam and Dad.”_

_Guitar man said nothing for a few minutes. He shook his head._

_“Then stop wishing for it and make it happen.” He picked up the guitar and his fingers plucked at the strings. A lilting melody came out and filled the silence and the space around them. “The acorn doesn’t become an oak just because it hopes to be.”_


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He remembers the pouch somewhere in New Mexico.

He remembers the pouch somewhere in New Mexico. They’ve been riding and avoiding people non stop almost, so the days are made up of watching for pursuit and looking for water. Nights are split up with watches and tending saddle sores, which is the epitome of awfulness until they heal and get used to riding all day.

Dean doesn’t know about Jimmy, but he doesn’t sleep much, can’t, not with Elias there. It’s almost as bad as those first few weeks Sam was missing. Dean only slept a handful of hours each week and clutched his phone so hard it cracked the screen. He would have kept on like that, too, until John drugged his drink.

He keeps Elias in his sight at all times. The man notices, no way he wouldn’t, and goes on ignoring Dean like so much scenery. Elias doesn’t say a lot except for the occasional direction to set up camp or comment on their strange words and references. The Yoda quote Dean made to Jimmy when they were watering the horses got an epic eyebrow dance from Elias and muttering about an asylum.

“How did you end up here?” Jimmy asks one day. They’re watering the horses from a well at an abandoned homestead.

The house is abandoned. Shredded curtains sway in the windows and the door hangs ajar. The barn has been pried apart by wind. Dean poked around what was left, but there’s no sign of what happened to the people that had lived there, just their dust covered belongings and birds nesting in the rafters.

“My brother, Sam,” Dean says. He faces away, scanning the hills. Elias is somewhere behind them masking their trail. “I made a deal to get him back. He… Something happened to him. He disappeared.”

“Is that how you know about demons?”

“No, I knew about them before. That’s why Sam left. He needed to live and… Well, shit happened.”

Jimmy is quiet for a while. The sun is too bright, it white washes everything and makes his eyes burn.

“I made the deal for my sister,” Jimmy says. “She left, too, but it was kind of my fault. We fought a lot, I said some things. She left the night she was supposed to graduate from high school and never came back.”

“Sam disappeared from college. I went to visit and figured out something took him. Didn’t know if he was dead or alive.”

Jimmy nods. He has his hat tipped back and a ring of smeared dirt on his forehead.

“I quit college when I heard she’d gone down to Mexico, got involved with some dangerous people. I spent a year down there looking and getting shot at before I- before the deal.”

Dean swallows. His chest feels like it’s collapsing in on itself.

“I just wanted us to be a family again.”

Jimmy says it soft, like it’s not meant for Dean’s ears.

Dean sees movement and watches Elias come over the hills. He rides at a trot, shoulders relaxed. Elias gives a short wave; everything is good.

There’s a strong sense of deja vu as they cut through Texas and head into New Mexico. The land is wilder and more lush, but he knows they passed over where I-40 will be.

It’s his watch that night and Dean finds the pouch in his jacket pocket. He hasn’t checked it at all since the jail, but it matches the one in his dream to the last stitch. It’s soft leather with a pattern of small beads, shells and bone making a man shape with a guy with feathers on his head playing a flute. Dean vaguely recognizes it from stuff sold in tourist traps all along the southwest, but can’t remember the name.

Inside are ten seeds, each one different and he can’t put names to those either. One might be wheat or grass. One is hard and round. Another is teeny tiny and green. Dean holds them cupped in his palm and pushes them around with his finger.

Dean pokes at them for a few more minutes and puts them back in the pouch. It’s sad, he thinks, that this isn’t even the weirdest thing to happen to him in the past month.

The beads are smooth under his fingers and he traces the pattern until his eyes start to grow heavy. The wind whips through the brush, threading through his hair like a mother’s fingers.

He doesn’t know he’s gone to sleep until the shouting wakes him up. He jerks upright, seed pouch still in hand, and can’t move for a minute. It’s like every Western he’s ever seen as Indians on horseback come out of the dark like ghosts, their arrows notched and spears in hand. It’s only a couple of seconds, Dean will think later, but they feel much longer until he finally goes for his gun.

“Wake up, wake up!” he brings his gun up as painted men converge on them.

War whoops fill the air; they sound alien in the dark. Dean grabs Jimmy by the arm and hauls him out of his blanket. Jimmy grabs his rifle from the ground and Dean levels his gun at an oncoming brave, finger resting on the trigger.

It’s a human, he thinks and hesitates. For all the monsters he’s killed he’s never killed a human.

An arrow goes zinging by his head and Dean can’t afford to think after that. It’s almost another hunt, one that’s going sideways. Dean keeps Jimmy at his back and Elias on his right. They fire at the Indians but miss more than they hit. The flashes light up the night and smoke hangs like mist. Dean sees one brave cut loose the horses and take off with them. He registers Jimmy’s lack of shoes when they hit the dirt to crawl to cover near what Elias called a buffalo wallow; it’s a glorified depression in the dirt, barely big enough for one of them.

War whoops sound from all sides and Dean realizes, fuck, this is it.

Elias curses and bangs his sharp elbows into Dean’s ribs. He’s out of bullets, so is Dean. The rest of Jimmy’s ammo is with his saddle.

“Close your eyes!” Elias yells.

Dean turns to him, the question on his tongue, when the world ignites.

At first it’s like a flash bomb; all white light that devours the darkness into bright oblivion. He hears a high pitched scream like an eagle, before the world dissolves to complete darkness. Then there is pain.

Oh God, the pain.

Hands grab him and pull him up. He stumbles and thinks Jimmy tells him to run. There is fear and adrenaline and his face is melting off, fucking fuck, oh God, please, make it stop. He steps into open air and falls, rolling ass over tea kettle until he hits bottom. Dean bites at his lips to keep the screams inside but it’s so hard, God, so hard, it hurts and he can smell his burnt flesh like roasting pork.

“Come on, come on, we gotta go,” Jimmy says.

Dean latches onto Jimmy’s hand and gets up. Then he doubles over and retches. He feels it splatter his boots.

“He just lit up,” Jimmy whispers and nudge-pulls Dean after him. Jimmy’s breath comes short and fast, voice edging on hysterical. “Just lit up like a Roman candle. What the hell is he?”

There’s a dull thud to their left and Jimmy pushes him on.

“They’re coming,” he says. “I don’t- Just keep going. Keep going, keep running, I’ll hold them off.”

Dean reaches out for Jimmy. That tone- no, he’s heard that tone before, he’s spoken that tone when things got bad and he didn’t think he’d get out but if Sammy did it would be okay. Jimmy pushes him away.

“Go,” the kid says, like he’s some fucking hero.

It’s the final shove that does it. Dean loses his footing and falls backwards into water. It’s deep and swift. His head goes under for a moment and panic rabbits around in his chest, and he kicks and flails until he breaches the surface.

“Jimmy!”

No one answers. The current drags him along, away from the gunfire and wild cries. Water fills his ears with a steady rushing and swallows every bit of his world in cold, wet darkness.

 

#

 

_Bobby listened to Sam’s rambling story in silence, passing him another beer when his ran dry and finishing up the chile rellano. Dean followed suit, only speaking up to nudge Sam back on track when he went off on a tangent. Sam kept his eyes trained on the tabletop, one long finger tracing the wood grains and scratch marks worn smooth over time. Dean kept his knee pressed into Sam’s. Sam would press back, take a breath, and continue._

_When he finished Dean took a long swig of his beer and gave Bobby a steady look._

_“Sammy can’t cook worth shit, but he excels at making pie out of air. Puts Betty Crocker and Paula Deen all to shame.”_

_Dean’s tone was light and Sammy relaxed a fraction next to him, but Dean’s face was firm._

_Don’t mess with what’s mine, his look said. I’ll stand between him and you._

_Bobby finished his own beer and grunted._

_“Don’t go spreadin’ that around up here unless you wanna back it up with some blue ribbons. The little old ladies get vicious.”_

_Sam let out a breath and honest to God giggled before he got a handle on it. Dean nodded and knee bumped Sam. Sam looked over and grinned so wide and clear, a look of grateful innocence Dean hadn’t seen in years._

_Sam went to lay down a while later. He still needed rest to rebuild his strength, so Dean helped Bobby with the dishes._

_“You talked to John yet?” Bobby handed Dean a plate to dry._

_“No,” Dean said, and carefully ignored all the implications surrounding that._

_“Can’t hold out on him much longer.”_

_“Sam needs time to get his bearings back.”_

_Dean wasn’t gonna hold out on John forever, only as long as Sam needed. Dean wanted to have his illusions back that Dad and Sam would set aside their differences and get along, and hell, right now Sam probably would. He wasn’t so full of the abrasive anger and sadness he’d held onto before he left._

_But John was… He was John. He had his ways and he was set in them, and after the fight-_

_“You boys are welcome to stay, long as you need.”_

_Dean stilled and turned to Bobby. Bobby nodded at him._

_“You boys are family. I might need a bit to get used to the whole “demi-god” business,” Bobby made a face and Dean could hear the finger quotes. “But so long as he doesn’t bring the house down around my ears or transmogrify anything irreplaceable I can deal with that.”_

_Dean swallowed around the rough knot in his throat._

_“Thanks, Bobby.”_

_Bobby rolled his eyes._

_“You wanna thank me proper you can start by putting the dishes away in the right cabinets, idgit. The cups go there, not the plates.”_

 

#

 

 

He wakes up to the sun bleeding through his skin and black all around. He can’t open his eyes and he’s half in the river. With a groan he rolls onto his stomach, or tries at least. He’s like a turtle on its back with no leverage. His legs are numb; he doesn’t know if he even has feet. He makes it over after a struggle, fingers digging into sand and raking over rocks. He drags himself up the bank and onto dry dirt.

The sound of his breathing is ragged against the still air. Birds chirp overhead. The river flows behind him.

He collapses, spent, out of the water and on a prickly bed of dead grass. He gasps for air, arms shaking so hard he can’t make a fist anymore and something slips from his fingers.

He drifts in and out for a while. The birds keep singing, the river keeps flowing, and if he doesn’t think too hard the pain in his head fades to a lowly hum.

After a while he feels a soft touch on his hands that moves up his arms. It’s not the wind and it’s not a person, or even an animal. He’s almost positive, anyway. He twitches, but the motivation to move is just not there. The sensation spreads all over him and then sinks into his skin, gentle and slow.

The pain in his bones doesn’t go away but it becomes less, like aloe vera on a bad sunburn. He flexes his fingers, digs them into dirt, and the pain dips down to almost manageable. A sigh steals out between his lips. He digs down farther, an inch at a time. Something shudders pleasure-like under his skin, a burst of endorphins, and the burning ache in his bones siphons out through his fingers. His body goes lax. He sleeps.

He doesn’t really dream. He sees a swirl of colors that pour over him, different hues of green and brown and blue. He feels the brush of wheat heads against his hands and warm grass tickles his feet. The whisper of leaves brush over his face and below his feet he feels a steady heartbeat that his own mirrors.

He wakes again when the air is cool and crickets are singing in the grass. There is someone else there.

“Who are you?” he asks.

There is the soft shuffle of feet in sand. He backs into a tree, head swiveling from one side to another as he gets a fix on where they’re at. The feet stop and a man speaks. The language flows like water but it passes over him, the words slippery.

“I don- I don’t understand, dude.”

The man speaks again and he concentrates on the tone. It’s reassuring, gentle.

The man moves closer and he lets him. Something in the voice says I’m here to help.

Fingers touch his foot first. He keeps still, so the man comes closer and touches his shoulder. Something is pressed into his hand and he clutches at it, a pouch of some kind. Relief he can’t remember the root of surges through him and he curls around it. A hand squeezes his shoulder. He relaxes and clings to the pouch while the man settles beside him and spreads a cool mixture around his eyes.

“Oh wow,” he murmurs. “Thank you.”

Whatever it is penetrates his skin and soothes the layers of damage. Then a cloth is wrapped around his head and it helps, helps him remember he can’t open his eyes so they skin doesn’t pull. But it’s bad, too, because without the pain his mind starts wandering. He thinks about the river and why he got there, and he doesn’t know. He can’t remember what got him into the water, can’t remember where he is.

He can’t remember who he is.

Inside, a gulf opens and it’s a chasm so deep and dark he feels he’ll go crazy standing at the edge of it. He reaches out and a hand finds his. He holds on with all his strength and the man starts talking. He could be listing different deaths the man could visit on him, but that’s stupid; the man just took care of his burns. The man’s voice anchors him against the chasm. He teeters, but the man keeps talking well into the night.

He sleeps.

 

#

 

_Dean watched a coyote in the twilight. It was a scrawny thing, all legs and raggedy fur that blended in with the sand and scrub. It ghosted through the underbrush and sniffed around small trails left by mouse, lizard and desert toad. The coyote paused when it came into the open and dark eyes found his._

_“You know what the difference between humans and gods is?”_

_Dean turned and guitar man was there sitting next to him. Guitar man was puffing on a pipe this time and the smoke curled out of his mouth. Sage and tobacco washed over Dean’s senses, made him heady and light._

_“No,” Dean said and looked back at the coyote. It was still there, head cocked and ears twitching as it watched them back. It was a young one, Dean realized, still growing and learning. It took a few tentative steps forward and sat on its haunches._

_“There isn’t one,” guitar man says. “We all come from the same place, we’re grown from the same seed. The choices we make and how we let our roots grow are what make us one or the other.”_

_“That doesn’t make any sense,” Dean snorted. “If that’s true then there’d be a ton of gods running around instead of a ton of humans.”_

_“You’d think so,” guitar man nodded. “Most people fail to realize their potential even when it’s pole dancing naked in front of ‘em.”_

_The coyote let loose a yawn that showed all its teeth and a red tongue. It scratched its ears and yipped._

_“So humans are just blind, then?”_

_Dean itched at the bridge of his nose and looked up as a star shot across the sky, the fiery tail leaving a streak across the horizon._

_“They look outside for their answers and only take in what they want to see.”_

_“So what makes a god?”_

_The coyote let loose a long howl. It seeped into the fabric of the desert wind, a mournful sound with a hint of hope hanging at the end, waiting for a reply._

_Guitar man took in a long puff and breathed out a cloud of smoke. The smoke twisted in the air and turned to thick tendrils. They wrapped around Dean’s hands, winding up his arms before they turned to solid root. They sank into his skin, burrowing down, white shoots threading through his veins and soaking up his blood._

_“That is the question, isn’t it? When you have an answer let me know.”_   
[ ](http://poetartist.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/448/44141)

 

#

 

He wakes with the sense of having dreamed, but the last slippery images fall through like sand through cupped fingers. The tighter he tries to hold on the quicker they leave, until he only has the faint impression of smoke and emptiness.

The man is still there. He talks as he removes the bandages to apply more cooling paste. The man helps him drink from a water skin, stopping when he wants to take in too much too fast and chokes. When his head is wrapped again the man helps him up.

The man puts a blanket around him and continues to speak in his calming way. He holds out a hand, catches the man’s arms on the second swipe.

“Please. I don’t- Thank you, but I don’t know what happens now. I don’t know what to do.”

His voice cracks like glass under pressure and he hates it. He might even cry if his eyes weren’t burned shut, but the sentiment comes out clear. The man takes his hand and puts it on his chest. He feels leather and beads and under that a heartbeat.

“Hania,” the man says. The man takes his hand and taps it against his chest a couple of times. “Hania,” he repeats.

“Hania.”

It sounds wrong and a little twangy coming out of his mouth. Hania makes a pleased noise.

“Hania.”

It’s not much, but it’s something. He holds onto that.

Hania wraps an arm around him and they walk.

He loses track of time. The going is slow because he has no shoes and the soles of his feet are tender. Hania is patient and leads him on the easiest paths. Leaving the river is hard; he can feel how dry it is in the air, how the plants are rough and the dirt crumbles. Every now and then Hania stops to give him sips of water and it keeps him going. They come up on an open space of dirt and brittle grass when he hears a horse snort and paw at the ground.

Hania speaks again and helps him to sit. Hania pats his shoulder and the message is clear, sit and stay. Hania walks to the horse and moves things around.

He concentrates on the warmth of the sun that is turning from pleasant to hot and the way the wind cuts through it with sharp edges.

Hania comes back for him and helps him up. The horse noses at his shoulder. He reaches out and Hania guides his hand to the horse’s neck. He strokes the warm skin and shuffles close.

It takes a worrying amount of time for Hania to help him onto the horse. There is a boulder but his balance is shot all to hell and he keeps wobbling. The sun is higher in the sky when he is settled on the horse, bareback. He grips the mane and hunches down. The world tilts around him as Hania leads the horse away; bones shift under its skin and it rocks him until he learns to go with it, swaying in time with hoof falls and counting breaths to take the edge off of fuck I’m gonna fall.

They make camp that night and Hania presses jerky and water into his hands. He eats everything he’s given, aware of the hunger that claws and gnaws at his insides for the first time since he woke up.

The next morning they travel again, Hania leading the horse at a fast walk. This goes on for two days until he hears sounds of other people. He sits up a little higher, head bent forward. Hania calls out and someone answers. Then there are people all around, touching him, talking, asking questions, and tugging on his legs and fingers.

Several hands grab at him and pull him from the horse. Panic shocks through him and he pushes them away, his breath harsh and fast. He trips and lands in the dirt. He covers his head and curls around his middle when someone kicks at him, but that’s all there is. Then Hania is there talking to him, helps him sit up, stand.

The other people back away but don’t leave. He can hear them just a few feet away keeping pace as Hania leads him away and into a building that is cool and smells of corn and smoke.

A woman with a sharp voice approaches. She doesn’t touch him but she sounds irritated. Hania answers back. One of them grabs his hand and holds it out. The woman says something low, then grunts. Hania leads him a few more steps and helps him sit on a blanket near the wall. He leans back against it, soaking up the cool, and can’t help but feel swallowed in uncertainty and isolation as foreign words are exchanged above him.

He clings to the pouch as hard as he can.

Hania says something and a bowl of corn mush comes a few minutes later. He eats with his fingers. It tastes different, not sweet enough or something, but it’s good. He cleans the bowl and drinks the water passed to him. He doesn’t want to but he falls asleep sitting up. He barely registers Hania guiding him to lay down or the blanket pulled over him.

 

#

 

_Sam found him on the porch later that night. Bobby was asleep in front of the TV, chin to chest, snoring through the baseball highlights they’d been watching. Sam passed him a plate with a slice of blueberry pie and sat next to him on the swing. Dean grunted in appreciation and ate a bite. That turned into a groan as the flaky crust gave way to the swooping sweetness across his tongue._

_“Awesome, dude,” Dean said through the food and gave Sam a wide smile, juice seeping over his teeth and turning his tongue purple. Sam rolled his eyes, mouth pursed against a smile he couldn’t really stop._

_“You are so gross, man.”_

_“You know you love it. But you should think about expanding your menu. You don’t want me to be hyped up on sugar all the time.”_

_“No, I remember Tuscon. We don’t need a repeat.”_

_Dean grinned; he’d learned how to rewire a candy dispenser outside the hotel room so it gave up the Kit Kats and Mars Bars for free when he kicked the side. Best breakfast, brunch and afternoon snacks ever._

_“You could practice whipping up the perfect cheeseburger and, I dunno, non gas inducing onions since you have a beef with my digestion tract.”_

_“How about I focus on disguising tofu so it’ll actually do you some good?”_

_Dean choked on a giant blueberry. He leveled his fork at Sam._

_“Do it and I will not be held responsible for my actions. Remember the Nair?”_

_“Remember trickster?” Sam grinned wide and pointed his thumb back at himself._

_Dean scowled._

_“The universe is fucking unfair.”_

_Sam mock frowned and patted Dean’s shoulder._

_“I’ll be sure to lodge a formal complaint.”_

_“Yeah, you do that, baldy.”_

 

#

 

 

The woman is Sunki and she doesn’t like him at all.

She grumbles and snaps at him when he talks, when he’s quiet, when he moves and when he stays still. She doesn’t touch him except to poke at him with a bristly broom when she needs to get at something.

Hania leaves him in her house and goes away for hours at a time. He comes back now and then and speaks, but the language means nothing, foreign and unhelpful.

So he sings.

The lyrics come unbidden and once the first is out the rest follow like they were just waiting for an excuse. He sings songs about highways to hell and smoke on water; he sings about wayward sons and wheels in the sky. The words twine together over his tongue until they melt together and he can’t tell where one song ends and another starts.

He doesn’t know who he is or what happened to him, but he knows his music. It’s one thing he can latch onto, and does with a desperation that gets under his skin.

Sunki hates it. Her grumblings turn into snapping and then into harder jabs with her broom.

He should shut his mouth and keep his head down. He should, but he just can’t. Not even when Sunki has bedded down and he knows he should stop, but no matter how quiet he sings it’s not quiet enough. Sunki hits him over the head with the broom twice.

He switches to humming and watches the lyrics form in his mind. It’s the best he can do until he wears himself out, because if he doesn’t then the questions will replace the lyrics.

At least the stories in the lyrics have beginnings and ends.

He doesn’t have either.

 

#

 

_“Why is the sky like this?” Dean asked. The tree is somewhere behind him over the sandy-scrubby hills and beyond the dry creek where the ground was cracked down deep._

_The sky is bleeding black, purple and red into each other against the white stars that constantly circle them in perpetual night. If he stopped and stared up he got dizzy with the motion. It felt like the sky was trying to draw him upwards in some kind of vortex, like a horror movie he saw once, only it didn’t feel scary._

_It felt almost peaceful._

_Guitar man chewed on a stalk of wheat, or maybe barley. They all kind of looked the same after a while when you were passing them by at seventy mph._

_“The sky is the sky,” Guitar man shrugged._

_“It’s fucking trippy.”_

_“Yours is worse. It moves too slow.”_

_The coyote was still there, just ahead, watching. Dean had walked away from the tree some time ago to see how close he could get to the raggedy little thing. It toyed with him for a while, leading him out farther and farther, yipping and playing chicken while it stayed always just out of reach._

_It cocked its head at them while it sat on a large boulder that kinda-sorta looked like a person._

_A lot of the rocks kinda-sorta looked like people. Sam had mentioned them in his ramblings. It was more than a little disconcerting and he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d be joining them whenever guitar man got tired of their confusing talks._

_“At least mine makes sense.”_

_Shadowlands then. Well, that was just fantastic. How long had it been on earth? It seemed like just a couple of hours here at most, so maybe close to days? Weeks?_

_God, Sammy._

_The desert was dry and desolate, but not physically uncomfortable. There was a mild wind sometimes. It carried a faint scent of something almost familiar he couldn’t put his finger on. He didn’t feel cold or hot, he didn’t thirst or hunger, which was pretty damn awesome considering there was nothing to help any of that._

_The coyote yipped, drawing Dean’s attention back. It scratched its ear then caught sight of its tail and circled for a minute, getting no closer to catching it._

_Dean huffed a laugh and shook his head. The coyote stopped after a minute and sneezed, then scratched its ear, pretending it hadn’t just made a clown of itself._

_Guitar man snorted. He stood with his shoulders slouched and his head tipped back. He had his thumbs tucked into the belt loops of jeans that had seen better days._

_“Do you have an answer to my question?”_

_“About gods and people?”_

_Guitar man hummed in the affirmative._

_Dean shrugged. “You said it had to do with choice. Sam said that, too. He chose to let Coyote remake him when he was dying. He wanted to live. Except most people would make that choice when it faced them, but none of them became gods. Or godlings, whatever.”_

_“Sam did make that choice, but saying yes didn’t make him a god. It didn’t make him a god even because a god put the offer on the table.”_

_“Then what did?”_

_Guitar man’s mouth twitched upward as the coyote yipped again, bidding them to follow._

_“Sam made a promise during his godmaking. He doesn’t remember it right now. He won’t, not until his body and his soul and his purpose all find the same page. Come on, I think he wants to show us something.”_

_Guitar man strode ahead and Dean followed._


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sunki makes him sit outsid while she works in the home.

Sunki makes him sit outsid while she works in the home. If he pokes his head inside he’s hit with the broom and what he’s pretty sure are insults to his birth and character, possibly even his lineage.

It’s hot outside, but even though he can’t see he can shuffle around the house to follow the shade. Hania comes by frequently and helps him get to the well where he can pull up water. If he goes slow and counts his steps he can get there and back without tripping.

It’s a small victory, but he can’t help but to fist pump every time.

The village children hover around him like curious bugs, their voices buzzing as they hover just out of range for a couple of days. He keeps singing and whistling, filling the space around him with something he understands.

Then one of the kids gets bold.

He hears them long before they get close. He keeps still as tiny fingers touch his face and skim the new skin wrinkling around his useless eyes. It doesn’t hurt much now, just twinges deep in the tissue if he presses too hard, but these little fingers are gentle. The touch is followed by hushed voices full of wonder and questions, and it hurts, the idea of being on display, a blind freak that can’t even take a leak without someone leading the way and pointing him in the right direction.

Humiliating doesn’t even begin to cover it, and he can’t even see to find a hole to crawl into until he dies.

The kids lose interest in him after a while. The adults stay away except for Hania and Sunki. He can hear the others skirt around him, whispering, probably pointing. Once in a while he’ll hear someone shout, but he doesn’t know if it’s at him or not.

One day Sunki sets him outside with a bowl of corn mash and a hard string of words that sounds something like shut up and eat, don’t make me tell you again and someone joins him.

One of the kids approaches, soft little footfalls like drops of rain in the dirt. He keeps eating, his ears following the sound, and hopes like hell today isn’t the day they start throwing rocks.

Someone on prayer answering duty must be feeling kind, because the kid comes up to him and sits down on his right. The kid says nothing, just sits there, so he eats until the bowl is empty, sets it aside, and starts in on a song.

The kid scoots closer every now and then and follows him on his visits to the well. Always within reach but never actually touching, not until that afternoon. He’s on his fourth or fifth rendition of a song about some girl named Susie Q when a tiny hand grasps his twitching fingers. There are still words fumbling out of his mouth and losing the beat, but his hands still.

The kid goes away when the day starts cooling down and Sunki comes to get him. He wants to call him or her back, but that would be all kinds of pathetic, wouldn’t it?

The kid comes back the next day, and the day after that, and the day after that. Staying throughout while he sings, makes his trips to the well, and gets sick of corn mash with corn flat bread that sticks to his teeth and on the back of his tongue.

And his mouth feels fucking horrendous. Swishing with water and scraping at his teeth only do so much. He feels sorry for the kid sitting so close because his breath has got to be rank.

Still, it’s incredibly nice and he might just cry if his eyes still worked.

Time slips away from him. Hania visits more and more infrequently, and seems frustrated when he is there. The man tries to teach him the language during his visits. Some words stick, but the lyrics in his head keep pushing them out even when he hangs on. If words were water, then the few Hania teaches him are only drops in the river of what is coming out of him.

Then someone new comes to the village.

He can hear the people buzzing around and talking. The kid is jittery and leaves after a couple of hours, little feet beating it into the distance without warning.

He hears two pairs of feet approaching and Hania’s voice shooting rapid fire sentences. They stop in front of him. He only has a bowl in his hands and clutches it wishing for gunmetal.

There’s a shuffling sound and a shadow falls over him. He tilts his head up and angles his right ear toward them.

“Damn son,” a rough voice says in English. “Looks like you got into a spot of trouble.”

“Who are you?” he asks, voice cracking over the words with relief and giddy happiness because fucking finally, someone understands him! English still exists.

“Name’s Sam Colt. You?”

The name sends a trill of familiarity through his jumbled head, but then it’s gone and he’s left clutching at wind.

“I don’t know mine,” he says and extends his hand. A calloused one grasps his and gives him a firm shake.

“Why don’t we see if we can change that?”

 

#

 

_A week into their stay, Dean made a supply trip into town by himself. It took Sam two hours to convince him to go, finally threatening to turn the Impala pink before Dean would budge._

_Dean didn’t think Sam would go that far because there were certain things you just didn’t do, and messing with the car was one of them, but he didn’t want to chance it._

_Truth be told, getting a little air was probably the best thing. He had no urge to follow any leads on hunts Bobby was passing off to other hunters and he’d called Dad twice only to get voice mail. There was just something…off. Dean couldn’t put his finger on it, and it wasn’t big enough to stop the presses for but it made him feel all itchy and restless in his bones. He couldn’t quite settle down for anything and kept catching little bits of movement out of the corners of his eyes. Nothing was ever there and it was Bobby’s place for cripes sake, nothing would be able to get past all the precautions and salt without making a hell of a dent._

_Still. The itch and the flashes made it hard to settle down and enjoy his time with Sam and Bobby._

_He was in the grocery store tossing value sized jars of peanut butter into the cart when a stiff cold breeze cut through his clothes and liked to have given him frost bite. He dropped the peanut butter and had his gun in his hand before he could process ghost._

_Only it wasn’t a ghost._

_He turned around to scan the aisle and found it gone, like it was nothing but an illusion to start with. He was standing in a grassy valley with the wide sky above and not a cloud in sight. Dean spun around and came up with the same view._

_“Time’s up, boy.”_

_The hair on Dean’s neck rose as he turned, gun raised, finger on the trigger._

_The man looked the same as he had that night outside the bar in Texoma with his graying hair down loose over his shoulders. The knees of his jeans were dusty from kneeling in the dirt and the satchel he had hanging off one shoulder made him look humpbacked. His eyes- bright green, unnaturally so- stood out from the deep lines and crows feet on his face. The man leaned forward on the walking stick with the weird looking symbols carved into it._

_“It hasn’t been ten years,” Dean said._

_The man’s lips twitched upwards._

_“All contracts have fine print,” the man said. “Ten years have passed in the world the deal was made, and it wasn’t this one.”_

_“Now hang on, you said I’d get ten years with Sam, you said you’d give him back whole and unharmed. He ain’t either of those anymore.”_

_“Fine print. It’s a bitch that way,” the man said._

_“I can’t just leave him, not like this. Not with the way his mind is.”_

_“His mind will mend just like the rest of him has. But we have an agreement. I give you Sam and ten years otherworld time. In return you come with me. That time is now.”_

_The man’s eyes flicked down to the gun. He raised his eyebrow and then Dean was clutching air._

_“That won’t work on me. Now come on, don’t try to welch out. It’s time to pay your dues.”_

_Dean swallowed against the dry knot in his throat. His mind raced, clutching at and discarding plans of action faster than he had in any of his hunts, but the fact of the matter was that he was screwed. Total, completely, one hundred percent fucked. He didn’t even have enough salt in his pockets to get more than ten steps._

_He hadn’t even been drunk the night he made the deal. It was his first stint of total sobriety in a while, but he’d been burning out leads faster than they were appearing and the crushing helplessness had enveloped him. He’d gone to the bar and stared at the whiskey swill at the bottom of his glass he never emptied, soaking up the clack of pool balls and glitchy music croaking out of the worn juke box. Sometime later there was a fight he started, for no other reason than to feel something break under his hands, and he took a couple hits to the head._

_The man was waiting for him when he woke up. Dean was lying in the dirt bruised all to hell, and the man’s eyes were a faint green glow against the misty night sky that kept moving._   
_The man had said his peace and offered the deal. Dean hadn’t taken much convincing. He wanted Sam back any way he could have him. Ten years was a hell of a bargain._

_They shook on it, Dean blacked out again. He woke up in his motel sprawled over the bed._

_“Guess I can’t even say good-bye, huh? Just disappear on him after I promised not to?”_

_The man held out his hand. Dirt creased the lines of his palm and dirtied his fingernails._

_“You’re gonna come with me one way or another. I can drag Sam into this if you really want to.”_

_The sun beat down on them. Dean knew they were probably only a hundred miles or so from Sioux Falls. It would take a couple more hours for Bobby and San to realize something was wrong. Maybe less if Sam decided he was bored and wanted to ‘pop’ in on Dean without using a car._

_Dean clenched his jaw and stepped forward. He grasped the man’s hand tight and tried to still the thundering in his veins._

_“Good boy,” the man said._

_There was a ripping noise, like cloth tearing, and then nothing._

 

#

 

Colt is a brisk man that doesn’t mince words. Rough hands, rough voice, nothing is soft, and yet it makes him relax. He gets this, understands it.

“No name, no memory, no eyes. Seems like you’ve had quite a time of it.”

“Seems that way, yeah,” he answers.

“Well, a man needs a name. People around here been calling you Mochni so we’ll go with that.”

“Mochni?” The name rolls off his tongue strange.

“Means Talking Bird,” says Colt, and he can hear the smirk in his voice. “Seems you were quite the noisemaker.”

It’s a name, it’s something. He’ll take it.

Colt makes a rustling noise, fabric on sand, and starts flipping through a book. Mochni hears the drag of his fingers on the pages.

“Hania here is the Hopi medicine man. He says he found you a couple days from here near the river when he was on a vision quest. Says that his visions led him to you.”

Mochni frowns. “Vision quest?”

“Crops are failing on account of the drought. He went seeking a vision of how to help his people and says the Creator gave him you, says you had a mark and everything.”

Colt reaches over and touches the pouch Mochni has been holding since Hania gave it to him.

“This here bag has Indian bead work on the side outlining Kokopelli. He’s their harvest god. I’d say that’s a pretty big coincidence there. Of course, I also know there was a camp of whites upriver about ten miles a couple nights past. Came up on the remains of it the other day.”

Mochni sits up straighter.

“Was there anything there?”

“Signs of a Navajo raiding party and quite a few charred bodies. Looked like a couple on each side got away but I lost the white’s trail when it turned farther into the mountains.”

“I guess that explains how I went blind,” Mochni says.

“Well, it also puts you smack in the middle of a situation I was tracking for months. Does the name Elias Finch ring any bells?”

Mochni shakes his head.

“Who is he?”

“Ain’t a who, he’s a what,” says Colt. “The Indians call it a thunder bird, some whites call it a phoenix. It’s a creature that looks like a man but it can turn into a flying fireball when it’s provoked. I’ve been tracking this one since Oklahoma. There was a series of fires that killed a lot of folks. The last one was in Texas, burnt up a whole family and almost got the rest of that bitty tinder box town. The sheriff and his deputy set out with a posse but they didn’t get far. Seems Finch laid out a trap for them. Most of the posse ended up stranded when their horses spooked or exploded.”

Something itches at the back of his mind, behind the lyrics and the music. He frowns and tugs at it, trying to inch it out from beneath the layers.

“Salt,” he says. “Salt and devils traps.”

There’s a pause.

“That only works on demons. Only iron works on a phoenix that I’m aware. So, you know some monster lore, do you?”

“I think so. Maybe. It sounds familiar.”

Demons. You needed salt, iron, and an exorcism, he thinks.

“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus. Omnis satanica potestas-”

“I guess that answers that question. That’s a bit more helpful. Were you hunting the phoenix, too, or were you just passing through?”

“I don’t know.”

Colt sighs.

“Alrighty then.”

With Colt acting as translator, Mochni asks his questions and Hania can finally answer.

“We came to these mountains many generations ago. We were once a prosperous people living in a vast city. Our crops sustained us and we traded with many tribes, and then the Spaniards came and brought their wasting sicknesses that left our city empty of voices. Today our numbers are small and the long drought has settled over us. Our corn grows dry before the ears have formed and our melons wither on the vine.

“Years of war with the Apache and Navajo have left us weak. Many warriors and young ones were killed or stolen so now the grieving mothers and grandmothers tend to the fields, but their tears do not quench the land, nor do the sacred songs. That is why I left to seek a vision. That vision led me to you, Mochni.”

“That’s really awful, but what am I supposed to do about it?”

“In my vision I spoke with Kokopelli, the humpbacked flute player. He told me to follow the deer trail until I came upon a sacred tree where I would find a good spirit, a kachina. The tree I found was one I have never seen before and I have hunted this land since I was very small. You were beneath this tree. The roots cradled your body and the branches bent down to shelter you. You had Kokopelli’s seeds with you. There is no doubt he sent you to help us.”

Mochni sits back and tries to digest that. Part of him wants to laugh and call it a load of bull shit, but another part that’s been growing more insistent like the lyrics pulls at him and says, listen.

“Should we plant the seeds then?”

Hania’s weathered hand settles on his wrist in a gentle grip.

“You must be still and let the world speak to you, then you will know what to do.”

 

#

 

_The coyote disappeared beyond a cluster of sage and saguaro just as fast as he’d appeared. Dean and guitar man were left standing in a bowl shaped depression. The mountains in the distance looked like a sleeping woman, another like a giant head bursting out of the sand. He stared at them for the longest time. Sam had said something about this was their punishment._

_What had been so bad to earn that? Dean figured he probably didn’t want to know._

_On the ground there was a stone with a large spiral drawn on it. Inside, a little coyote, a small humpbacked flute player and a man with a bow were placed inside. The longer he watched he could see they were moving in the spiral at different points and speeds towards the center with the little coyote in the lead._

_“It’s not a race,” guitar man said like he could read Dean’s mind._

_Dean grunted and toed at the dirt. The vortex-y getting-sucked-into-the-sky feeling was stronger here even without looking up. His stomach churned a bit and he closed his eyes._

_“Sam told me about this place. He told me about the sky and the giants but I thought it was stuff getting mixed up in his head.”_

_It had been so hard to just sit there when Sam had broken out of his silence and gone into rambling tangents that lasted for hours. It scared the crap out of Dean. Seeing Sammy like that- off kilter, cloudy eyed, so damn broken- it took everything Dean had in him to stay still and let him talk. He’d wanted to hit something, to tear it apart, salt its bones and lay it to rest. That didn’t work on little brother’s mind, though._

_He kind of understood it now, looking at the sky and the desert, how this place must have warped Sam’s perception of things. This place was wedged just outside of time and so desolate that even the company of another like that Fred chick wouldn’t have taken away the sharp sting of loneliness. Guitar man certainly didn’t._

_Dean bowed his head and breathed deep. The feeling eased up somewhat._

_“Sam has a long road ahead of him, just like you,” said guitar man. “He started out first, but he needs a guide to help him.”_

_“Is that what I sold my soul for?”_

_Maybe it wasn’t a bad trade at all._

_“My brother didn’t take your soul, nor will he ever. That is not our way, and they don’t do much for us. They’re too bland.”_

_Guitar man flashed a toothy smile and Dean glimpsed a flash of shadow in his eyes._

_“Look at the spiral, kid. What do you see?”_

_Dean glanced down. The pieces were still moving minutely. The swirly feeling got worse. The spiral wobbled in his vision and he blinked, tried to look away. Guitar man appeared by his side and grabbed his chin, forcing him to look down._

_The sand around the spiral began to shift, little grains moving around in circles, brushing against his feet. He breathed in steady and swallowed. The sand came together and broke apart like water ripples. Images flitted across like pictures on a snowy TV. Then sound filtered in._

_John paced around a motel room where the TV glow bounced off sickly yellow walls with mold growing in the corners under the spreading ceiling stains. A cluster of beer bottles sat on the table while Dean clutched a half bottle of Jack between his up-drawn knees, every so often taking in a mouthful that never quite washed down the sour taste of disappointment, gas station burritos and questions sticking to the back of his throat._

_Dean lit a cigarette and sucked the acrid smoke, very aware of the way John tensed as the lighter flicked on._

_“Go on,” Dean said. John was a hazy shadow through the booze and smoke. There was a voice in his head telling him to shut up, but it was so tiny now it was a gnat on the edge of his thoughts. “You wanna go chase after some fucking hunt, go ahead. I’m still looking for Sam.”_

_“There are no more leads,” John wiped his hand over his face. “Deano, I’m sorry, but it’s been-”_

_“Five years, two months and fifteen days, yeah, I’m aware.” Dean took another swig and slammed the bottle down. Liquid sloshed up and over his hand. He swayed up to his feet. “Sam is more important than the demon right now, okay? Mom is- Mom’s gone.”_

_And God, that was fucking ironic, wasn’t it? John went very still, so unlike the night Sam hurled those same words just before he left. Dean staggered up to John and poked his chest with a finger._

_“Mom’s trail is cold, okay? You wanna avenge someone? Avenge the goddamn son you threw out into the dark and left for dead. It’s the least you can fucking do-”_

_He expected the punch. Dean hit the floor and didn’t move as the world went slishy-sloshy. He grunted and sat up on his elbows. John shouldered his duffel and regarded Dean for a moment. He couldn’t read John’s face, but that was par for the course anymore._

_“I’ll be back in three days,” said John._

_He left and slammed the door behind him. A few minutes later the truck engine fired up and Dean heard it leave the parking lot._

_Dean rolled over and staggered to his feet. He checked out the next afternoon and went east with the Impala._

_John didn’t call on the three day mark, but Dean hadn’t expected him to._

_Three weeks later Dean made a deal._

_The images faded away as the sand settled back. Dean found he was sitting now and blinked as the haze vanished from his head._

_“That was a defining moment, wouldn’t you say?”_

_Dean stood up and brushed his jeans off._

_“What’s your fucking point?” he snapped._

_“You didn’t tell Sam about this.”_

_“Why would I? The kid thought we were gonna turn around and hunt him down after what happened to him. I had to beat it into his head that wouldn’t happen. I’m not gonna follow up and tell him Dad gave up so he could go back to chasing after a demon and Mom’s ghost.”_

_“Maybe so. Still, hell of a choice.”_

_Dean’s jaw clenched. He could still feel the whiskey-sour knots that ate up his stomach and the cigarettes he chucked the next day. Withdrawal hadn’t been pretty, but Sam showed up at that bar two days after Dean made the deal. That had to have been the best reward for ending his drinking and smoking._

_Dean snorted._

_“It was the only choice I could make.”_

_Choosing between Mom and Sam was- Well. Mom was dead. Sam might have been, too, but there was no evidence. Until Dean had a body Sam was still alive somewhere. Always._

_“I never did ask Dad why,” he said, eyes unfocused. “He just kept saying that Sammy was… I don’t know. Maybe he’d been looking for the demon for so long that’s all he could think to keep doing. Fuck, but I couldn’t forgive him for that, though. Sam saw it coming. He told Dad to his face the night he left for Stanford. Said Dad put the job ahead of us. He was right. I knew Sam was right, I just. I wanted to believe Dad was better than that.”_

_“Well, as the saying goes, he is only human.”_

_Dean grunted. He knew it was true, but the understanding and accepting part were still out of reach._

_“Why make me see this again?” he asked._

_“Because life is not separate from death,” guitar man said. “It only seems that way.”_

_Dean glanced over._

_“Gotta disagree with you there.”_

_“I’ve been around since the world was nothing more than the spark of an idea out in the black. I know Death personally and it’s part of a circle that has no breaks. Humans like to separate the ideas of life and death with a gulf. Before and After. There is no divide, only transformation. Like Sam.”_

_Guitar man stood and looked down at Dean._

_“We have talked enough now. You must finish your journey and decide what it is that makes a god. I am interested to hear what your answer will be.”_

_Guitar man was there one moment, the next he wasn’t. Dean got to his feet and called out, but the only answer was a distant howl. It wasn’t a coyote or a wolf. He’d only heard it once before, on a very short and disastrous hunt down on the Arizona border when he was fifteen. The concussion and blood loss erased most of his memories about that hunt, but the inhuman howling and stench of death stayed with him, just like the jagged scar on his thigh._

_Dean crossed his arms as a shiver passed over him. He looked down at the spiral again for a moment before he turned to go back to the tree._

_Only they way they’d come was no longer there. The tracks were gone and the land had moved around._

_“Fucking great. Is this another stupid riddle? What am I supposed to do?”_

_A familiar distant yip came from his right and Dean saw the flash of sandy fur in the brush. He looked around again before sighing and turning to follow the coyote._   
[ ](http://poetartist.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/448/44383)

 

 


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mochni talks with Colt and Hania at length before Sunki comes to shoo them out at sundown.

Mochni talks with Colt and Hania at length before Sunki comes to shoo them out at sundown.

Mochni fumbles and grabs Colt’s arm.

“Tell her I’m sorry about the racket,” he says. “But thank her for the name and everything else.”

Colt relays this and there is silence. Then a tired sigh and Sunki says something back.

“She says if you wish to show thanks, then you can help her in the garden as long as you keep your voice in your head. She said she will keep the broom nearby if you forget.”

Mochni smiles for the first time.

“Tell her I’ll do my best.”

The next morning Sunki helps him shuffle to her garden. Colt is still sleeping somewhere else, so he stays quiet and tries to understand. He can hear the bite and scrape of a hoe in the dirt breaking the earth. After, she guides his hands to a bag of seed- corn by the feel of it- and shows him how to plant it. He nods and does it a few times before she moves on.

They work like that through the morning, Sunki breaking earth and Mochni following behind to plant. When the sun is high above they take a break. Sunki brings water from the well and they drink before she waters the seeds. After a quick meal of flat bread and mash they start again.

It’s hard work for him, shuffling along on his knees and dragging a bag of seed behind him without tipping the contents. Sweat rolls down his face and neck, pooling at the small of his back. When they finish he aches everywhere but he feels good inside.

Sunki starts talking in an irritated voice, but it’s not directed at him when she walks away. Mochni crawls back to the house on hands and knees so he doesn’t disturb the plant beds. He uses the side of the house to stand. He cocks his head and listens as two people approach, recognizes Sunki and Colt.

Sunki says something and walks away.

“She said to stay out of the house. She’s going to prepare something for dinner,” Colt said. “She also mentioned the broom again, so you should assume she’s serious.”

“Have you figured out anything about your hunt?” Mochni asked.

“Hania’s working things on his end with the spirits, seeing if he can dig anything up.”

Mochni went rigid.

“He’s working with ghosts?”

“Nah, not ghosts. Spirits. He’s contacting the other side and talking to ones that already crossed over. Sometimes they can get a fix on what’s happening where. It’s a helluva lot better than waiting for more casualties.”

Mochni considers that. It leaves him with a funny feeling in his gut.

“If he finds out where this phoenix thing is I’d like to go with you. I know I’m not much use blind, but I need to be there.”

Mochni taps his temple right where the burns start.

“I can sympathize with you, son, but I can’t be looking out for a cripple.”

The words cut deep even though he expected them.

“I’ll take care of myself. This phoenix, maybe it knows who I really am.”

Colt puts a hand on his shoulder.

“The phoenix won’t cooperate with people. It won’t be able to give you back your eyes, either. I’ll send word of it when it’s done.”

Mochni can’t do anything as Colt walks away. He wants to run after Colt, stand in his way, and demand to go along. Actually, he wants to point a gun at Colt and demand it, but with his luck he’d probably point it at a cornfield instead.

Mochni sits out in the garden long after Sunki has brought him food. He shakes his head when she tries to help him inside.

Sunki snorts and mutters something that sounds insulting.

Mochni pulls the rough blanket around his shoulders. His hands turn over the seed pouch and he hears the seeds roll over each other, soft as a puff of air.

Cold settles in over him and he dozes on and off, never dreaming really, but he comes to before he can pin down fleeting images, noises and smells that ache with familiarity. Sometimes he comes to feeling movement under him and flings his arms out, sure he’s about to fall or crash.

Between that he thinks. He thinks about the phoenix and the possibility of answers. He thinks about Colt and the nagging sensation behind the name that tastes like metal and hope in his mouth. He thinks about how the fuck he’s supposed to accept his current situation and what the hell he’s supposed to do about this good spirit stuff Hania went on about.

Mochni doesn’t know who he was or had been, but he knows he is only human, and a blind one at that. He can’t even help himself. How was he supposed to help Hania and his entire village? Even if he isn’t a ‘good spirit’ he wants to repay them somehow.

When dawn comes his joints are stiff and achy and it’s a bitch getting back into the house. He also has no answers, and their absence settles like raw wounds.

The lyrics dry up in his throat and seep back into his bones, leaving only the blanket to ward off the sudden chill that cuts deeper than the wind.

He’s working in the garden with Sunki later when Colt comes by, preceded by the scuff of his cowboy boots. Mochni stops his work and angles his head in the direction of the noise.

“I’m heading out. Just wanted to wish you luck with your endeavors.”

Mochni dusts his hands off.

“Thanks.”

“And also to give you a warning.” Colt comes into the garden and squats down in front of Mochni. “I’ve known Hania and his people a long time. They’re like family. He’s a good man, and he’s very smart, but he also has a lot of people to look out for. And those people are needing a miracle. I don’t know too much about the spirits and kachinas, I stick to things on this side of the veil, but he thinks you are the miracle they need. A lot of his people are believing the same.”

Colt lays a hand on his shoulder and fingers dig in hard enough to bruise.

“Don’t hurt these people, boy. If you’re a good kachina then do your job. If you ain’t, then you move along as soon as you can. I come back often. If you visit any kind of hurt on these people I will take you out into the desert, gut you, and leave you for the animals. Am I clear?”

“Crystal clear.” The fingers disappear.

“Adios.”

 

#

 

_Dean walked out into the desert and kept walking. The land shifted from time to time on him. For hours he could look back and see the bowl-shaped depression, and the next time he looked around it was gone and a series of giant hands reaching for the sky were there._

_The coyote kept just ahead of him, no longer as playful, and led him on some path only it could understand. Dean followed it through dunes, over rocky expanses, down dry creek beds and weaving around saguaros and prickly pear patches. He never got tired or winded. If only he could be like that during a hunt, he thought as he scrambled up a sharp incline._

_He stopped when he came to the top of the hill and eased down into a belly crawl. The coyote was crouched down and looking over the other side._

_Dean scooted up near it and looked over._

_Below, about twenty feet down in another dry creek, were a cluster of creatures. Gray, hairless things with brown teeth and stinking of old blood, they shuffled around the sand grunting and growling at each other._

_Chupacabra._

_Dean’s stomach turned. Without warning, two of them started fighting, letting out awful screaming noises too close to humans in pain for Dean’s liking. They tore at each other until one got in a lucky bite, severing an artery._

_The death howls were just… Dean swallowed and pushed it away._

_The victor set on the loser and started devouring it until the rest of the group closed in._

_It was like shark week in the desert._

_The weaker ones waited on the edges of the fray, barking and grunting pitifully. When the frenzy ended, only a few bones and blood-stained sand remained. The weak ones slinked in after and squabbled over that._

_The coyote let out a low growl in its throat, too low for the chupacabras to hear._

_“Let’s head back down,” Dean murmured._

_He inched backwards until he could turn and climb down. He dusted his jeans off and almost jumped when something soft brushed his leg. The coyote stared up at him with human eyes. Green eyes._

_It wasn’t like hearing a voice, more like thoughts were placed in his head and he just knew._

_Lost souls. Damaged souls that turned down a dark road. It was their punishment._

_“Damn,” he said._

_The coyote let out a huff and led the way again._

 

#

 

Colt is gone for three hours when Sunki pauses to bring water from the well. The pouch weighs heavy in Mochni’s pocket since Colt’s last words to him and he pulls it out.

The seeds feel almost silky as he runs his fingers through them. A large oval seed catches his attention and he pulls it out, rolling it between his fingers. It’s bigger than a marble and hard with tiny grooves cutting into the shell. A tune slips into his head and he starts whistling it without a thought.

There’s half a phrase in his mind, something about deja vu or going with a flow, he can’t remember.

He digs his fingers down into the mound to make a hole, drops in the seed, and covers it back up.

Sunki comes back and waters the new mounds. Mochni leans against the house and dozes in the afternoon light.

The next day the whispers start outside the house, then talking, then shouting. Mochni is sleeping and wakes up to Hania’s hands shaking his foot. At first all he hears is a stream of words that make no sense, then it’s like breaking the surface of the water and he hears.

“What is it?” he asks.

“Come,” Hania says, surprise threading through his voice. “Come to the garden.”

Hania helps him stand and leads him out. The crowd parts for them, awed whispers following reverent touches on his arms, head and back. In the garden Hania takes his hand and holds it out. He feels rough bark and thrumming life like a heartbeat.

“It grew overnight and the branches are heavy with fruit,” says Hania.

Mochni follows the trunk to the first branch and feels along it. The fruits are round and fuzzy. He picks one and brings it down, smells it.

“Peaches,” he says, and bites into it.

Sweet juice bursts in his mouth and down his chin chased by a low tartness. He holds the fruit out and Hania takes it. He hears the sharp intake of breath after the bite.

“We have no fruits such as this,” Hania says.

“Eat them,” Mochni gestures to the tree. The words tumble out without thought. “There is enough for everyone.”

Two people come into the garden and begin picking them. Mochni steps aside and listens to the quiet murmurs as the fruits are passed around, and then the exclamations and surprise as the people begin eating. Something in his chest swells hot and satisfied. Someone takes his hand.

“Thank you, Mochni. Thank you.”

Lips brush his cheek. Another comes up and hugs him. Heat floods his face but he nods his head, whispers ‘you’re welcome’ and can’t help but feel overwhelmed by the gratitude.

He hears Sunki approach and she stops in front of him.

“Hmph,” she says. “You are good for something, finally.”

Mochni bites back a smile.

“I try.”

“Next time plant your strange tree away from my paths. I have to make new ones now.”

Hania chuckles as Sunki walks away. Someone takes up a song and another joins in, then another and another.

The air is full of hope and wonder and peaches.

 

#

 

_“What the hell?”_

_They’re at some kind of altar. Or, well, as close as Dean could tell that’s what it was. A circle of rocks, bones, feathers and shells with painted symbols and a faint smell of ozone in the air. He circled the outside of it, the hair on his arms rising. He knew what this was for._

_This was where Sam became a demi-god._

_The coyote sat off to the side, watching with a bored expression. Its ears twitched every once and a while._

_Dean got as close as he dared and squatted down to look at the symbols. Some looked familiar, some didn’t and he recognized a few like the symbols for rain and lightning and the sun. Or maybe it was a moon. He wished he had Dad’s journal. It was only in the year before Sam went to Stanford that John sat him down and started going through the pages with him, showing him how it was categorized and letting him add an entry here or there. The last time they’d dealt with a Native American monster was when he was sixteen._

_That was a hunt he and John never talked about, and Dean’d had an aversion to those passages in the book._

_Dean glanced at the coyote. It looked at him and back at the circle as if to say, get on with it, dumb ass._

_Dean picked up a small rock with some kind of squiggly symbol._

_Nothing happened._

_Dean turned it over in his hands for a couple minutes and put it back down._

_Sam had a hard time describing what had happened there. When he pushed he could remember lights and sounds and the sensation of being wrapped in silk and pushed through a meat grinder. It all sounded equal parts nerdily poetic and horrifying._

_“He shouldn’t have had to go through that alone,” Dean poked at a couple of other rocks. There was no number high enough to count the times Dean had berated himself for not speaking the night Sam left. It tripled when he got Sam back. Watching Sam struggle just to form words when the kid had devoured dictionaries and thesauruses just…_

_It just tore Dean down, right down to his foundations._

_The coyote let out a growl and Dean turned around in time to see one of the chupacabra, a nasty big one, come lumbering around the saguaros. Dean froze but a gust of air hit and the thing raised its head, sniffing, and turned towards him._

_“Oh fuck.”_

_Its face contorted, cracked lips pulling back over its jagged teeth as a rumbling growl climbed out its throat. This one was larger than the others with scars riddling its skin like it fell in a pit of razor blades. Dean glanced around, frantic. All he had were rocks._

_He stooped to pick up the nearest one and the chupacabra charged._

 

#

 

He plants one seed every day, but not in Sunki’s garden. Mochni wanders around the village and talks with people. He learns their names, their histories, and their troubles.

He learns about Nova, the child that sat with him. She is dumb, the grandmothers say. She watched her parents and sisters die during an Apache raid and has not spoken since. Mochni feels her following every day and one night he sits beneath the peach tree and talks to her. He tells her it’s alright if she can’t speak yet but she’s not alone. He goes on to sing until his voice strains. Small arms latch around his neck and she presses her face between his neck and shoulder. Mochni holds her until she leaves. She doesn’t speak, but that is still okay; one day she will again.

He learns about Pakwa, a man with a twisted leg that tells stories to the children and sets traps around the gardens to keep furry thieves away. Pakwa laughs more than he is sad and tells Mochni the tale of two brothers that go on a long quest to hunt down creatures preying on their people. The story makes Mochni wistful. There is an echo of shared laughter and conversation in his head. He feels a name on the edge of the echo, but it fades out.

One seed renews the withering corn so that each stalk is almost sagging under the bounty. Another grows medicinal herbs that heal the sick and injured within hours. One seed dropped on the edge of the village calls forth a pure and sweet spring. It is only afterwards Mochni learns the well had been going dry.

He doesn’t hear instructions on what to do. He doesn’t receive any divine plans. He just walks, listens to the people, and knows where the next one is supposed to go.

Each seed brings more joy and hope to the village. Hands touch him with reverence. Voices thank him and tell him their stories. It lights a fire in his chest that grows and fills him up. He can feel the contentment and grace when he listens to the village at night and thinks, I am doing something worthwhile.

It doesn’t ease the questions, but he finds himself settling in. He is serving a purpose, he is giving back, and it feels wonderful.

He thinks he could be happy.

Then it all goes to hell.

He knows something is wrong before anything happens. The people are still going about their business but the undercurrent, the insects, the dogs, the ground, it all feels like they stop breathing. Nature freezes. Mochni stops walking and turns in a circle to pinpoint what’s wrong, then he hears it; the beat of large wings in the sky, harsh breathing, and the crackle pop of flames.

The next thing he hears are hoof beats and ragged swearing- it’s Colt.

“Something bad is coming.” Mochni grabs the first person nearest. “Something is coming, get Hania and tell everyone to-”

A high pitched screech cuts through and Mochni ducks on instinct. Something hurtles over his head and hits the ground. Someone screams and people start running.

Mochni gets back to his feet. Colt is still a ways off, but whatever landed is getting up.

“You broke a deal, Dean.”

The voice is low and full of moldering sparks. Mochni shudders as something in his head realigns and-

It’s not like the movies, where everything rushes in at once in a montage of sappy images and soulful violins. It’s like waking up and shaking off the disorientation of a deep dream. He remembers the river, the fire, the fight. He remembers Jimmy staying behind, remembers Elias breaking him out of jail and the demons and the field he woke up in and the deal being collected and-

And Sam. He remembers Sam.

“Where’s Jimmy?”

“You need to be worrying about you right now, not Jimmy. You sold me out. I warned you not to cross into my business.”

The sound of fire fades and Elias walks forward with a scuff and slight ca-chink of his spurs. Dean takes up a fighting stance. He doesn’t have anything on him but a blanket around his shoulders and the pouch with its last remaining seed inside. He still has his fists, for all the good they’ll do before he probably bursts into flame, properly this time.

“I didn’t sell you out. You already had a hunter on your trail.”

“So you say, but Colt catching up only after I threw in my lot with you and the boy, that’s a mighty big coincidence.”

Dean hears the swish of an arrow loosing and the thunk as it hits a target. Elias curses and staggers back but stays on his feet.

“Come now,” Hania grabs Dean’s arm and pulls him away and into a house.

“I need iron, it’s the only thing that will hurt him,” he whispers as Elias calls out his name. “Anything else will just piss him off.”

“I have an iron knife. Sam Colt made it,” Hania says.

“Good, good. Give it here. I’ll keep him busy until Colt gets here. He’s just a few minutes away.”

“You cannot see. I will face him.”

Dean reaches and grabs Hania’s arm.

“Your people need you, okay? Finch wants me. Let me deal with him til Colt gets here. No one else needs to get hurt.”

Hania protests, but Dean cuts him off.

“You saved me, helped me. Let me do the same, okay?”

He wishes like hell he could see Hania’s face. He can judge reactions and tailor his words so much better when he has someone else’s facial cues, but if wishes were horses and all.

“Please. Let me.”

Hania lets out a sigh and a knife is pressed into Dean’s hand.

“You have already saved my people, Mochni.”

“Then let me make sure they stay that way.”

He hefts the knife. It’s balanced and sharp, and he can feel the symbols etched into the blade and handle. Well, he thinks, here’s hoping that Colt’s colt wasn’t a one hit wonder.

“Finch!”

Dean leaves the safety of the house. He can smell burning corn, corn that his seed planted, and feels it die like a physical ache inside.

“These people got nothing to do with this. What’s say you leave them out of it and come after me? Let’s settle this.”

“Sounds good.”

Dean’s been shot twice in his life. Once was in the leg during a hunt, the second was just a stupid accident and cost him a kidney because some asshole kid was playing cowboy in the woods of Idaho.

The bullet rips through his chest just opposite his heart, grazing a rib and shredding a hole through his lungs. The force of it throws him back and he hits dirt. Blood wells up the back of his throat and it’s all he can taste. The metallic tang is too familiar.

Dean lifts the hand with the pouch and presses it to the wound. Warmth seeps through the pouch and his fingers. He feels the earth sucking the rest out of his exit wound. Breath stutters and he wheezes for air.

“You should’a let me be,” Elias comes over and kneels next to him. Dean smells his rank breath and warm gunmetal. “I had no quarrel with you, just the men that set me up.”

Dean tries to speak but all that escapes is pained gurgling. Elias sighs and there’s the swipe of material over skin.

“Hold still,” Elias says. “It’ll only burn for a second.”

Hands come down on either side of his face and it feels like a fever rising in Elias’ skin that keeps on going. Dean moves.

The knife goes in awkward, but he pushes it in until he can’t anymore. It’s just a little to the left of Elias’ heart. The knife grows hot and melting metal mixes with the scent of blood. Elias gasps for air. There’s hoof beats, a shot, and then crackling like electricity. Elias’ body doesn’t drop; it disintegrates.

Wind picks up. Dust and ash disperse.

“Mochni! Mochni!”

He feels Hania press down on his wound, but something strange is happening. The last seed must have slipped out of the pouch because he can feel it sliding down into his wound, into his lungs, into the blood pooling quick. He feels the seed sprout and tiny roots spread. They soak up blood and worm into veins. They expand, divide, and fill him until they come out the other side of him and plunge into the dirt.

“Mochni, be still,” Hania is saying.

“Listen to the man, you’re gonna be alright, kid,” Colt says, voice ragged as he staggers over.

The roots press into the backs of Dean’s eyes. He lifts a hand- so heavy, like sifting dirt after a cave in- and numb fingers grasp Hania’s shoulder.

“You- you’re all safe,” Dean says. He doesn’t want to leave these people, he doesn’t want to die and leave Sam in the future, alone and brain addled. He doesn’t want to, but it’s done. It’s time.

His eyes open.

It’s not like before. He can see, but not just what is in front of him. He can see and feel and hear and smell and understand _everything_.

Colors bend and sway in pulsating auras. Trees and corn and grass whisper. The ground hums with gentle vibrations. Rocks sing. And people. He sees the people.

They crowd around and reach out to him. Their hands touch and he feels their minds, their hearts. He sees their fears and hopes, he can taste their dreams and wishes. They pray for him.

The ground shifts as roots fan out below him. Vibrant green shoots push Hania’s hand away from the wound and go up and up towards the sky, seeking sun.

He doesn’t feel pain anymore, just growth.

Earth crumbles as the roots pull him down. Everything in him separates and he is no longer a body; he is part of everything. He dissolves into earth and air and sky. His roots plunge deep; his branches reach high.

He is everything.

 

#

 

_The greatest things come from the tiniest of moments._

_Dean doesn’t remember where he heard that or who said it, but it came to mind as the chupacabra bore down on him with snarling, snapping teeth and hard muscled rage. It’s not the big moments of decision or the sweeping weight of a speech. It’s not knowledge or discovery or winning a thousand battles._

_It’s the smallest of seeds and giving way for them to grow._

_It’s all in the letting go._

_Dean laughed as the rush of color and light and memory swept into him. It was like taking a breath for the first time. The world came alive outside and within him; his heartbeat stepped in tune and he became part of the living pulse of the Shadowlands._

_Dean dropped the rock and went to his knees. The chupacabra was almost on him. Its aura was a twisted mess of red, black and sewer sludge brown, a festering mess of pain, hatred and self-loathing. Its soul screamed under the weight of it all._

_Dean placed his hands on the ground and called up the little seeds. White, green, and purple shoots burst from the sand and tangled the chupacabra’s legs. It squealed, stumbled, and fell, sliding the last few feet until it was right in front of Dean. The plants grew bigger and vined around it as it struggled and howled. It snapped at them and more vines shot out to close its mouth. Soon it was covered and only the eyes still visible, wide and white as its fear permeated the air._

_Dean lifted his hands and the plants stilled, securing their hold on the chupacabra._

_“You couldn’t let anything go,” Dean said. He surprised himself when he looked at the creature and all he felt was pity. “You kept holding on so tight that it twisted you into this.”_

_“And you didn’t.”_

_Guitar man appeared off to his right. He looked satisfied._

_“I let go,” Dean said. He thought about Hania and his people, about Colt and Elias, and how he’d let go of Sam in those last moments._

_“You surrendered and let yourself grow.”_

_“That’s what makes a god,” Dean opened his hand and stared at his palm. He saw skin and muscle, bone and blood, and between he saw tiny roots weaving in and out of him and connecting him to everything outside._

_“That’s what starts a god.”_

_Guitar man wasn’t a man anymore. Dean saw beneath the human layers and into the ever shifting fabric that made him up. He listened and heard the sound of thunder growling over the open prairie and the wind whipping through the sky, unrestrained and untamed. He heard the name Coyote._

_“So Sam did the same. He let go when you remade him.”_

_“He did, but he had trouble keeping it that way. He is still young. He learns best by example.”_

_Coyote smiled, and it was genuine._

_“I can go back to him, then?”_

_“You always could, you just had to learn how. Tell my pup I said hi.” Coyote turned away._

_“Wait. I have one more question.” Coyote turned back and nodded. “Why did your brother make this deal with me to become- to turn into a demi-god? Sam was dying when you offered. I wasn’t.”_

_“Your soul was. As for the why, that is a conversation between you and Kokopelli.”_

_Coyote gave him a two finger salute and disappeared. Dean glanced around and spotted the little coyote’s tracks in the sand. They vanished a couple feet away, but the imprints in the sand were more than tracks. Dean felt thunder and rain and a hint of apple pie echoing from them._

_Dean grinned and followed it._

_The fabric of the world ripped down a seam and he stepped through._

 

#

 

“Brother Elder led Brother Younger out of the cave. When they reached the entrance, Brother Younger smiled at the sky, the trees and the wind. He laughed aloud and took joy in being in the world again. Brother Elder rejoiced at seeing Brother Younger so happy. They made their way back to Brother Elder’s camp and gathered his supplies and weapons.

“Come, said Brother Elder. We have work to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can only liken writing this story to the scenes in Cast Away where Tom Hanks had to take care of his tooth ache without the help of a professional dentist. I knew I had a story to tell about where the Winchesters went next, because Dean was always meant to follow Sam into demigodhood, but actually writing it was almost beyond me. I started this story a dozen different times only to have them fizzle out.
> 
> Then big bang season came around again and, right in the middle of it, my plans to move clear across the county.
> 
> This would be an awesome time to attack that story, said one of the more insane voices in my head. I guess it was right, because I did finally get it written after pulling so many mental teeth with nothing but seaweed and determination.
> 
> My apologies for the abrupt cliff hanger. The story does not end there, but I am job hunting, the big bang deadline was near, and Nano is coming up so I have other projects that need my attention. It will be written, though, just not this year, lol.
> 
> Artwork was created by the talented amber1960 over on LJ. Go see the art post here: http://amber1960.livejournal.com/114631.html
> 
> Beta'd by morelenmir and amber1960 from LJ, thank you so much, guys!
> 
> Notes about the story:
> 
> The story about Brother Elder and Brother Younger is based on an actual myth. They were called the Warrior Twins, sons of Changing Woman and Father Sun, who did indeed go monster hunting. I tailored the myth to reflect my AU canon.
> 
> The Hopi: I did what research on them that I could in the limited crazy time I had, so any errors are my fault. Originally they were going to be Zuni but the books I had on that tribe were packed and I only now just found them. I found a fun fact somewhere that said the Hopi would wake people by shaking or tapping their feet, so that if the soul was absent in dreams it wouldn’t be rudely shocked. So that’s why Hania woke Dean that way.
> 
> Hania: Hopi for Spirit Warrior, fitting for the tribe’s medicine man. 
> 
> Sunki: Hopi for To Catch Up With. She seemed like a woman who was forever impatient with people because they could not keep up.
> 
> Pakwa: Hopi for Frog. I just liked the name.
> 
> Nova: Hopi for Chases Butterflies. This name is dear to my heart because I chose it for my horse when she was given to me. I decided the little girl should have this name to reflect who she had been before she went silent, and as a hope she might return back to it as a result of her brief contact with Dean.
> 
> Mochni: Hopi for Talking Bird. Originally I wanted Dean’s Hopi name to be Cheveyo, meaning Warrior Spirit, and because it’s so close to Chevy, but Sunki vetoed that idea early on. 
> 
> Q: Why wasn’t Fred the one to help Dean in the Shadowlands?
> 
> A: Because she would have killed him. It would have put a whole new spin on ‘family drama’ and Sam would have cried. And then gone on an epic tantrum/destructive binge.
> 
> On Elias Finch: I truly enjoyed his character on Frontierland. He struck me as an honorable guy bathed in grief and seeking retribution, but I also felt like his wife helped to soften his edges. I couldn’t fit much of his back story into this narrative (believe me, I tried), but this story is supposed to take place before Frontierland, so Elias never got to meet his wife-to-be and is a bit more prickly. 
> 
> Jimmy: This is Fred’s little brother. I wanted him to have a bigger role, but the story just wouldn’t support it, and I didn’t want him to become a lock-n-stock replacement for Sam. He’ll be back in a later installment and I’ll get to write about what happened after the Navajo attack, and sneak in some Elias back story as well.
> 
> Sam Colt: I pretty much threw out his personality from Frontierland and revamped it to fit what I needed. I needed a seasoned hunter to be a threat to Finch instead of a tired drunk. Also, I did little to no research on the actual Sam Colt, so just ignore anything/everything that doesn’t match up historically.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the second installment as much as I enjoyed finally finishing it (there may have been fist pumping and glorious praise in the name of sugar).


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